


Little House

by winter_angst



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Grief/Mourning, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-15 12:00:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29808087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winter_angst/pseuds/winter_angst
Summary: Brock is here to stay.
Relationships: Jack Rollins/Brock Rumlow
Comments: 6
Kudos: 9





	Little House

It’s a little four room house painted a gaudy yellow that they intended to repaint. Slate gray, Jack says, but Brock isn’t sold. He thinks that blue would look much better. There was a faded, well worn rock path leading from the driveway up to the small lattice porch, the lattice chipped, dingy, faded white. It was snapped at the very end. They’re going to rip it off and build a more tradition railing around it, Jack says, but Brock isn’t sold. He thinks the lattice gives character, a nod towards all the years their new home had stood steady, waiting for them. There are hooks drilled into the banister for plants to hang. You can get some more plants, Jack says, but Brock isn’t sold. He tends to kill anything green that comes into his immediate vicinity. The door is the same dirty, worn white as the lattice, with an old fashion door knocker. We’ll replace that with Ring, Jack says, but Brock isn’t sold. The house is remote and the door knocker gave the place character. 

The door opens into the kitchen, the hallway narrow with a line of pegs in the wall to hang jackets. They will tear down the half wall hallway and open it up to the living room, Jack says, and Brock is sold on that. It feels crowded to have one person standing in it, much less two, and it isn’t the experience he wants his guests to have when visiting their little home. The living room is a perfect square, the walls an unpleasant shade of green. They’ll repaint and replace the molding around the top with wood trim to go with the hardwood they will be placing, Jack says, but Brock is only partially sold. He hates the wall color but thinks that the molding looks nice. The floor as of now is carpeted with dirt brown carpeting that will undoubtedly need to be replaced. Hardwood floors, Jack says, but Brock isn’t sold. He sees beautiful white carpeting on the floors, a flash of modernness to the otherwise dated home. There are two windows on the far side of the room, dusty brown curtains. They’ll add another window to let in more natural light, Jack says, and Brock is sold. He is already matching the pale blue walls that exist in his mind with white curtains as a tie in with the carpet. 

There’s one light in the center of the room with a domed glass lampshade, tinged with age and the light was softened to a fault by all the dust that has accumulated inside it. It’ll be replaced, Jack says, and Brock thinks that should have been obvious. He can see a modern fixture being attached, perhaps a ceiling fan as the house was too old to have central heating or air conditioning. Complete opposite the square living room is a rectangular kitchen, half the size of the living room; L shaped counter with just barely enough room for a small dining room table to be crammed by the west facing window. They’ll make it work, Jack says, and Brock agrees. All it would take was as little creativity and a smaller table and it will be a cozy kitchen. There’s three doors on the northern wall, the center being a bathroom with a corner shower. They’ll fit a tub, Jack says, and Brock is sold. He is already thinking about sinking nose deep into a fragrant tub of water with a good book. It has a tiled floor, a few tiles chipped and broken, and stained grout. It’ll all be gutted out, fresh tile laid, Jack says, and Brock is sold. He would have to throw a fit if it isn’t; in his mind he was thinking about fresh white tiles and how fresh it will look. The walls are Pepto-Bismol pink, somehow not dulled by the time that the house has been sitting empty. They’ll just repaint, Jack says, and Brock is sold. He is thinking it should be warm tan, something comforting for his long soaks. There is a washer crammed in the corner by the sink. They’ll get a stackable units, Jack says, and Brock is sold. Life without a dryer was distressing to Brock so he didn’t even want to entertain the thought of hanging out the wash. The sink is squat and dingy and as is the toilet yellowed and cracked. Both will be replaced, Jack says, and Brock thinks that should have been given. 

The left and right doors are bedrooms, small and a bit cramped with two windows on the outside facing wall. Their queen will fit, Jack says and Brock isn’t sold. With the limited space they would need to downsize and, besides, Brock sleeps more on Jack than he does on the bed so the extra space is already wasted. The floors in the bedroom are white and shaggy with a plethora of stains. They’ll rip it open and put down hardwood, Jack says, and Brock isn’t sold. He hates cold feet and wood was notorious for that. 

The house sits on two acres and a sprawling backyard with a little stone patio. They’ll be able to grill in the summer, Jack says, and Brock is sold. He can picture Jack standing over the grill with some tacky apron with some pun across it. There's a clothesline strung between the trunk of two juvenile bald cypresses. He’ll cut the line down, Jack says, and Brock is satisfied. Just looking at it was intolerable. There are raised beds skirting the back of the house full of dead plants and flourishing weeds. They can garden, Jack says, and Brock isn’t sold. It was the same reasoning as the porch plants -- he can’t successfully keep any plant matter alive. 

The amount of agreements they can make on the house settles it. 

This is their home. 

** ** ** **

“Just sign here,” the realtor says. She’s tall with arms a little too long for her body. 

Brock takes the fountain pen and signs with flourish. She looks at him with muddy brown eyes and she opens her mouth once and then again as she says, “I have to say, you buying this house by yourself -- ”

Brock shuts down. He stands quickly and heads for the door, fleeing the interaction he isn’t nearly ready to handle. “Wait,” the realtor calls and Brock freezes, shoulders hunched defensively. “I’m sorry. It wasn’t my place. Here are your copies.” 

“Thanks.” Brock manages through tight lips and he leaves as quickly as he could. 

Once he is in the safety of his car he clutches the papers to his chest as pressure builds in his eyes. He stared forward at the brick wall of the realtor office. In his rearview mirror he sees pedestrians walking along the sidewalk. He inhales through his nose and his breath shudders in his lungs but when he releases it it's steady. His hold loosens on the papers and presses them to the steering wheel, smoothing out the creases. He’s carried himself this far, he can carry through the rest of the way. He presses the start button on his dash and the car comes to life, engine purring softly. It’s not his dream car; his was a Volvo XC90, something speedy and subtly flashy. This is Jack’s dream, a Tesla. Brock found it to be ugly but he stuck with it regardless. It’s only right. 

** ** ** **

The contractors and painters come. The painters start out on the outside of the house: slate gray. The contractors arrive bright and early and set up equipment as he tears out the lattice and builds a railing out of polished oak. Brock received funny looks when he initially told the head contractor about it who pointed out the price but Brock isn’t letting finances hitch him up, so the spruced up porch was completed in two days, fresh red oak boards and steadier wooden steps. For the exterior painting of the house it takes four. The contracts moved to the wall afterwards, knocking it down in just a half an hour. They repair the floor space and they find plaster where the wall was connected. The contractors repaired what was damaged during the tears down and the mudding is soon covered in pale blue paint as the painting team moves in and divides up for reach room. The contractors pry the crown molding from the walls and began to measure and cut trim while the paints put on the first layer of paint. The glass company arrives and utilizes the space already measured to place the third window. 

The flooring team comes and the carpet is torn up and polished cherry hardwood is placed. The plumber comes in and installed the new basin sink and new porcelain toilet. The tile guy comes soon after. BathFitters arrive and the tub is placed. A painter comes in and repaints the bathroom tan. Sears fits and attaches stackable units and places the new grill on the patio. A garden comes to revive the garden beds, a hobby Brock has devoted himself to. He buys spider plants and makes use of the hooks. Ring comes out to fit the doorbell and a handy man comes to remove the door knocker. He replaces the curtains around his new windows with light brown curtains to go with the flooring. He places the dusty glass lampshade for a three light ceiling fan with cherry wood fan blades. 

He goes out to check on the gardener and catches sight of the clothes line. He turns around and goes to his cozy kitchen, a new small table against the wall, and gets a steak knife. He crosses the yard and cuts down the line, just as Jack promised he would. Projects come to a conclusion and Brock is left with bills he pays promptly. He sits alone at his kitchen table and closes his eyes. He sees Jack in his mind and opens them again. He’s not ready to face him yet. 

** ** ** **

“It looks really good,” Natasha says as she looks around the small house. “I don’t know why you picked such a small place, though.” 

“It’s just me,” Brock said with a shrug of his shoulders. 

His houseguest is a long time friend, currently wearing a sunny yellow dress that made her alabaster skin look even more delicate and her red hair all the more vibrant. She currently had a glass of pomerol that Brock has found himself identifying with as of late, what with its velvety smoothness. She was looking out the open back door. Brock is taking full advantage of the mild autumn weather to air out the house. A breeze ruffles Natasha’s dress and it flutters dramatically a moment. Brock sips from his glass. 

“Not forever,” she points out and Brock’s chest constricts uncomfortably. He finds solace in his wine. “Jack wouldn’t want you to be alone forever.” 

“How do you know that?” Brock asks bitterly. He knows this conversation all too well. The reactions to finding out that Brock was still buying their little fixer-upper was mixed but he still carried it out, now backed with copious funds from the lawsuit. It had sat in escrow for almost ten months and that was after it sat on the market for three long years. “It doesn't feel right.” 

“I know it’s hard,” she begins but Brock is quick to correct her. 

“Do you? Last I checked Clint was alive and well.” 

Natasha purses her lips. She knew him well enough to know his anger wasn’t really towards her. It was his own frustration bubbling over. He seeks safety in his wine once more. It’s autumnal in itself, perhaps why Brock has taken to it. It’s expressive and sweet with notes of cedar and sweet tea. But it is also a joyless wine and Brock relates to that. Sometimes the house feels haunted by Jack’s presence, every little thing he’s done to honor Jack’s memory makes him linger in the forefront of Brock’s mind as he stands within the little house’s walls. But it keeps Jack alive in a way. 

Maybe it’s not the healthiest way to grieve but it’s personal to Brock. It was a matter of principle, of doing what is right. The gardener still comes and tends to plants that Brock gave her a wide berth. But on the evenings he stands on the patio watching over the sun sinking below the mountains, he can turn and see so much life living so close to a home built for a dead man. It is good to have another visit, to have another living soul warming an empty home, Brock thinks. He drinks from his wine glass as Natasha tried once more to sway him in a direction Brock will never, ever go. 

“I just don’t think it’s a healthy way of coping. The constant reminders can’t be good for you. I love you, I hate knowing you’re in so much pain. I want to fix it.” 

“Trying to hook me up with people doesn’t help,” Brock says because a blind date always comes after this talk. He tries to ward it off without Natasha making too much of a fuss. He’s made his decision and it’s not going away. “So you can stop doing that any time now.” 

She sighs and sits down. Brock does as well. “I can’t force you,” she relents. “But whenever you’re ready I don’t want you to feel guilty. Moving on is natural. In fact it’s suggested.” 

Brock knows he’ll never move on but he nods his head to appease her. A smile twitches as her lips as he thinks she may have gotten through to him, the same smile she has every time they talk. Brock hopes that soon her hope would die out and he could have normal interactions without the topic of him finding a new lover take priority. Maybe then Brock can find his way again. His heart will sit fractured in his chest forever and he’s accepted that. So his only option is stay as close to Jack as possible and what his friends thought wouldn’t sway him. He knows what is right for himself, they know only what they hope is right for him. This little house exists in a permanent state of melancholy, echoes of a lost lover all around him and Brock is okay with that. He has to be because when Jack tripped all the feet up in the air he had instinctively grabbed the powerlines to steady himself because of the low railing on the lift. Touching the wires with two vastly different voltages is what took Jack away from him. 

In the end it doesn’t matter if the points his friends make are logical, Brock is here to stay.


End file.
